Sheila Connolly - Reunion with Death

by Sheila Connolly

  When we had seen our fill, our drivers herded us back to the vans. They had told us before we started out that morning that whichever van we chose, that would be “our” van for the rest of the trip. In other words, that group of nine or so people would be our travel buddies. I’d meekly followed Brenda to her van and waited to see who else climbed on board. I saw Cynthia heading off in another direction, but I didn’t feel slighted. I wanted to talk to more than one person over the next few days.

  Once loaded on board, we set off for the next stop: a (surprise!) Medici villa. Apparently the Medici had roamed the countryside around Florence, picking off nice properties as they went. I had to admit they had good taste. Getting to this villa proved to be something of a challenge: the only road that led to it was barely one lane, but more important, it sloped upward, all the way. If any van showed the slightest hesitancy and slowed, it was an iffy proposition whether they could resume the climb without backing up to a relatively flat section and taking a run at it. Needless to say, with nine people on board, most of the vans did this, more than once.

  When we finally made it to the top, we found it was a smallish castle, in the middle of nowhere, but it was nice, and we were told in all seriousness that it had crenellation—apparently that last characteristic was important for status or dating the building or something, for reasons I missed hearing. The castle sat at the top of the hill, and there was no driveway that would take us any closer, so we trudged up from where we had parked at the bottom and arrived at the top panting only slightly.

  We were greeted by an older man in a cap—not the owner, but someone who worked for the owner, or so I understood the explanation, which again I could barely hear. It was hard for Jean and Jane to make themselves heard outside, especially when people were spread out along the path, and half of them were busy looking at something else in the opposite direction. I was beginning to feel as though we had wandered into a chapter in a nineteenth-century novel. The aristocracy, the servants, the ancient castle—we visitors were the only anachronism.

  We began by touring the terraced gardens, which apparently had been revitalized in the early twentieth century by a romantic-minded Englishwoman, which explained why there were so many roses. And views. I was coming to expect spectacular views everywhere and I wasn’t disappointed. Everywhere there were banks of blooming flowers, and exotic trees, and a few olive trees tucked into corners; and then there were the mountains. I took more pictures, but so did everyone else.

  Inside we started with a short tour of the ground floor of the house and I was drawn immediately to the kitchen, which opened off the sunny central courtyard. It was magnificent, a funny mix of old and modern, with rows of polished copper pots in all possible sizes hanging on the wall, and then matching rows of copper pot lids, and an immense stone sink—with a plastic bucket sitting in it. The center of the room was occupied by a table that would have seated twenty people easily, made of two massive single boards, with room to spare around it—and there was a flat-screen television hanging in a corner. The collision of past and present was tangible; we were standing in the room where our lunch was being prepared and where who knew how many Medici meals had been made.

  The castle was actually still occupied by a family, which presented an oddly uncomfortable situation, although the family members appeared and helped to serve a delicious antipasto lunch prepared by a pair of aged retainers. The youngest family member—a granddaughter?—took advantage of the occasion to practice her English, which was surprisingly good. We were served buffet style, in a long room whose original purpose I couldn’t fathom. We collected plates full of antipasti we had just seen being prepared, and after my first bite I was inspired to reevaluate my position on salami, which I liked far more than I remembered. Maybe it was just good, or maybe it was eating it under the watchful ghosts of all those Medici, surrounded by rosebushes and olive trees.

  We distributed ourselves in a wobbly oval around the perimeter of the room. Each time we settled somewhere we found ourselves face-to-face, or side by side, with people we hadn’t talked to yet, and I wondered idly if there was an algorithm to predict how long it would take the forty of us to sit next to each and every one of the others in the group. Still, I was happy that we would be sticking to the vans we had originally chosen, so we could keep count of our group and not misplace anyone. I didn’t relish the idea of trying to explain in English to some sympathetic Italians that I’d been left behind by my tour group. I thought the relevant term might be perduto but I wasn’t going to bank on it. So far we were sticking together quite well, doing the typical touristy things like oohing and aahing and snapping lots of pictures, of the tower and the roses and each other with the tower and the roses behind. The weather cooperated—still cool, but no rain. More comfortable, in fact, than blazing sun would have been.

  After we had eaten we roamed about on our own for a bit, although we’d seen all the high points already. I made a point of ducking back into the amazing kitchen to thank the elderly woman who was still cleaning up. My feeble attempts at Italian produced molto bene and mille grazie. I didn’t know if they were appropriate, but they seemed to get the message across, as the woman bobbed her head and smiled widely.

  The printed schedule said we were allowed time for a siesta after we’d driven back from the villa. We quickly agreed that we were all too keyed up to take naps, and nobody was ready to admit they needed or wanted one. Instead we prevailed upon Brenda to take a detour to Borgo San Lorenzo, the nearest town of any size, in search of (what else?) gelato. It wasn’t hard to find. We parked on the street near a small cluster of shops and then descended on the tiny gelateria, where we provided much amusement for the staff.

  But I was on a mission. On my one and only trip to Florence, decades earlier, I had stumbled upon gelato without warning and ordered nocciola based solely on the name, since I had no idea what it was and I was feeling brave. The first taste hit me like a baseball bat to the head, and there was no question about the flavor: hazelnut. Uber hazelnut, mega hazelnut. It was spectacular.

  Now I wanted to know if my memory was accurate or if I’d magnified it beyond all reason through the passing years. I ordered; I tasted. I think for the first time in my life I understood the urge to swoon. Nocciola hadn’t changed, and it was still wonderful. It made me happy to know that I’d have many, many other opportunities to try other flavors of gelato, as well as to revisit nocciola as often as possible. We lingered in the small shop, simply enjoying being there, with no responsibilities beyond enjoying ourselves. The sun was shining and we were in Tuscany eating gelato. Life was good.

  Cynthia and I didn’t cross paths until we returned to the villa, sated with ice cream and sunshine. We walked in and flopped down in our respective beds almost simultaneously.

  “How many more castles are we supposed to look at?” Cynthia asked, her eyes closed.

  “A hundred? How many Medicis were there?” I responded, unwilling to move.

  “Too many. And they all wanted to put their stamp on everything they touched.”

  “I noticed that. Like monogramming the silver. Does anyone still do silver?”

  “The better question is, does anyone still get married and insist on matching sets for sit-down dinners that will never happen? You know, those big fancy dos with lots of presents?”

  “Come to think of it, I haven’t been invited to a real wedding in a long time. My daughter’s friends seem to have no interest in tying a knot with anyone.”

  “Smart girls. Oh, sorry—women. They’re a lot older than we were at their age. What about your daughter?”

  “Aren’t they, though? As far as Lisa tells me—which isn’t much—she has no interest in getting married to anyone. She’s enjoying her freedom.” As always, I hoped that wasn’t any reflection on what she’d seen of her father’s and my marriage, or what came after. I kicked my shoes off and wiggled my toes. “Anyway, my impression was that the Medici had a lot of balls.”

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nbsp; Cynthia snorted. “What, you mean all those coats of arms they plastered on everything? You are bad. Wasn’t there a handout about the Medicis in that immense information packet?”

  “Yes, but I don’t remember what it said. I think the bottom line was nobody really knows what those balls were supposed to mean. The Medicis slapped them everywhere, like branding a building. Or maybe just saying, ‘I was here and I bought the place.’” We contemplated our eyelids for a few minutes. Then I roused myself to say, “What’s on for this evening?”

  “I think the encyclopedic itinerary said something about a play.”

  I’d done my best to forget about that. “Oh, right, the infamous play. You didn’t sign up for it?” I asked, somewhat surprised. Cynthia had never been one to suffer from stage fright.

  “Nope. I thought it would be more fun to heckle from the audience. You?”

  “Not my kind of thing. I will applaud when instructed to do so, but I don’t have high expectations.”

  “How long until dinner? Or should I say drinks before dinner?”

  I had to roll over to look at my travel clock. “Half an hour, maybe? Too short for a good nap. Want to go exploring?”

  “How about we find a patio with a pretty view and just sit and stare at it for a while?”

  “Works for me.”

  We dusted ourselves off, put our shoes back on (ugh), and ambled out to the small patio in front of our door, where a couple of chairs and a table awaited. We sat and contemplated the vista. I was still trying to make up my mind about whether I preferred the view to the right or to the left. On the right the valley was broad and deep, but there were more mountains on the left. It was a tough decision.

  “Why do you think most people came on this trip?” Cynthia asked in a quiet voice.

  I thought about why I had decided to do it and realized I was still confused. “You mean this particular group of people?”

  “Yes, in a way. I’m trying to figure out the demographic of the group. I mean, they aren’t all friends in the outside world, are they? How many of these people have you kept in touch with?”

  “Apart from you? Only a couple, and only in a superficial way—you know, sending a holiday card, maybe. I did note that there was a peculiar concentration of people from one dorm freshman year or the year after—mine, by the way—but I don’t know if that’s significant or coincidental. I think a lot of them stayed there where they started, but I didn’t.”

  Cynthia nodded, not taking her eyes off the view. “I saw that too. But, tell me—is this just an indulgence for most of these women? Are they trying to recapture lost youth? Or trying to figure out whether they have made something of their lives? I mean, as a group we set a pretty high bar, by the standards of the day.”

  “Huh,” I said intelligently. “You mean we expected to go beyond the ‘Mrs.’ degree? How many reunions have you been to?”

  “Uh, three, maybe? Silly, isn’t it, since I live so close.”

  “I’ve been to the last few. And one thing that has made me sad is that so many of our classmates have said—or written, if they didn’t attend—that they were reluctant to come for just that reason: they didn’t think they could measure up to those standards. I mean, we have a higher-than-average number of CEOs and MDs and PhDs among us here. I can see that it might be kind of scary.”

  Cynthia tilted her head at me. “What’s even more interesting is how some of these women have reinvented themselves, some more than once.”

  “Like me?” The shift from art history to my present career was not an obvious or a likely one. But once I’d found my path, I hadn’t swerved from it. On the other hand, I hadn’t risen very far, but I was content with that.

  “Yes, you’re one example, but not the only one. Take a look at this group. Do you see any scary power brokers? Any divas? We all seem quite ordinary. So far we’ve talked about partners and children and where we live, but nobody is throwing her weight around and demanding, ‘Look at me!’ So I’d say it’s not an ego thing. Maybe we’ve reached a point where looking back is more important to us than looking forward. Or maybe we just want to reconnect somehow.”

  “And we had to cross an ocean to do it?” I protested.

  Cynthia nodded, once. “Maybe. Here everybody is out of their comfort zone. Maybe it’s easier to be yourself that way.” Her gaze shifted to the building down the hill. “Hey, look, people are arriving. This crowd likes to drink.”

  “With tonight’s entertainment, that might help.”

  Cynthia stood up. “You are such a cynic. Keep an open mind and see if you can find your sense of humor. You did pack it, didn’t you? You packed everything else you own.”

  In a mature fashion I stuck out my tongue at her.

  Cynthia wasn’t about to give up. “It’ll be fun. You ready?”

  “I guess so.”

  Once again I made sure I had my camera and my cell phone cum flashlight in my pockets, and then we went down the hill to join the growing crowd.

  Inside, armed with a glass of white wine and some more lovely prosciutto, this time curled around grissini, I checked out the main area. A long banquet table had been set up at the far end of the room, perpendicular to the axis, and all I could think of was Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper. Maybe that wasn’t too far from appropriate: after all, this was a Medici murder mystery, and someone at the table would end up dead, and someone else would turn out to be a killer. Or maybe more than one someone—since I had stayed out of the planning I had no idea what the plot was. The designated players started drifting in, garbed in a motley collection of items that could loosely be labeled costumes. I guessed that the players had hauled some of them along with them, squandering precious suitcase space, or had scrounged once they arrived. The members of the group didn’t quite match, nor did they hew to any known Renaissance standard, but it looked like people were having fun dressing up, particularly those with outrageous wigs. One person sported a bushy mustache that kept falling off. Nobody seemed to care.

  It was close to eight fifteen when people started drifting to tables, including those at the “head” table. I picked a table with yet a different group of people. Cynthia, at a different table across the room, winked at me and turned back to her companions. Food started appearing and more wine bottles circulated. Everything tasted wonderful—nothing like tramping through castles on hilltops to work up an appetite.

  And then the entertainment began.

  Chapter 5

  The performance started gradually. At first, the cast at the large table at the head of the room had been enjoying a meal just like most of us, but at some point they started speaking more loudly and more clearly, and the rest of us slowly realized that something was happening and maybe we should pay attention. The general din in the room diminished but did not stop entirely, and I had to strain to understand what was being said. Our cohort of actors displayed a lot of enthusiasm but a rather uneven range of acting capabilities. As I understood it—in the absence of any sort of playbill or guide—the person in the middle, who had the fanciest outfit on, was the count of something or other (names were particularly hard to decipher); the dumpy lady to his right was his wife, and the woman on the other side was his daughter, who giggled and simpered a lot, even though she declared herself to be an accomplished scholar. The rest of the table, as near as I could figure out, was made up of guests and hangers-on, both male and female, who spoke up in turn to describe themselves and explain their presence. I had a fleeting vision of all of us writing down what we thought was going on and then comparing notes later—I was pretty sure the results wouldn’t match well. A couple of servants attended to the head table, dispensing food, drink, and the occasional side comment. Everybody appeared to be having a very good time.

  An offstage knocking drew one actor away; she (or he?) returned to say there were callers at the gate or portcullis or whatever the heck the imaginary castle had out front. The Big Cheese in the middle of the table went out to de
al with them—and didn’t return. Nobody seemed to notice, as they went on emoting in all directions, carrying on real or fake conversations with their neighbors while they tried to keep the pieces of their costumes together. More wine was distributed, to the actors and to the audience. Several more people at the head table got up and wandered around, one or two finally following the missing count (it took them long enough!). Then all hell broke loose when one of them returned and announced that the count was lying dead outside, which resulted in much energetic shrieking from the ladies at the high table. They rose en masse and headed out the front door, followed by half the bewildered audience. Yes, there was the count, lying on the flagstones, liberally sprinkled with ersatz blood, a blood-smeared knife lying next to him. Poor count. At least s/he could stop worrying about remembering his lines.

  We trooped back inside and resumed our seats, where the honored guests at the high table seemed only moderately concerned that their host the count was now dead. The head servant (I thought—or maybe it was a guest) came back in clutching a piece of paper, which was apparently a clue to something, but the chatter in the room was so loud that it was hard to tell what it was or what it meant. We’d only begun to digest that information when one of the other guests, a young woman who was apparently pregnant, stood up, flailed around a bit, then collapsed with great gusto in front of the table, apparently also dead (although she seemed to be having a little trouble getting into her role, because she kept twitching with barely suppressed laughter). Some people—including the late count’s wife, who was still at the table rather than weeping over the body of her husband—seemed less than concerned that a guest had just dropped dead. The body count was rising fast. Including the count. Had to count the count. I was beginning to wonder how many glasses of wine I’d had, and I was fighting to suppress a bad case of the giggles. I had completely lost the thread of the plot. Was anybody else going to end up dead?